


If I Die Before I Wake...

by DaughterofElros



Series: What You Will of Me [12]
Category: Snow White and the Huntsman (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:14:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofElros/pseuds/DaughterofElros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Huntsman's condition becomes increasingly more dire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Die Before I Wake...

The night became black as pitch as soon as they left the pool of wavering light cast by the brazier at the Inn’s door. The path was unfamiliar, and Snow had only Kane’s rushed and whispered instructions to guide them. She was unaccustomed to riding at night, and even less accustomed to leading in the dark. They were forced to go slowly, allowing the horses to pick their way over the ground, trusting that the animals had a better sense of where they were stepping than the humans did.

To make matters worse, Eric was barely staying seated upon his horse. He had started off swaying alarmingly in the saddle, but as the minutes crawled by, he continued to slump lower and lower, leaning against the horse’s neck. Snow prayed that he wouldn’t fall; if he did, they would be in trouble, because there was no way that she could heft his sturdy frame back onto the beast’s back.

He continued to bleed, though she had bound a scarf as tightly around the wound as she could to stem the flow. Blood seeped through the cloth regardless, and whatever poison Sloane had used still coursed through his veins. Each beat of his heart sent blood out of his body even as it drew the poison deeper in. She felt her own heartbeat roaring in her ears as she peered through the trees, shoving aside the thoughts of just how much trouble they were in.

Kane had told her that on a good day, the Herb woman’s cottage was perhaps a twenty minute ride from the Wayfinder. In the dark, on unfamiliar roads, with Eric’s injuries, Snow estimated that it took at least thrice that long to reach the first turn off. She almost missed it too- the telltale gap in the trees that marked another path for them to take. The second turn off was just as difficult, but at least once she found that, she could be reasonably sure that help was in reach.

The cottage was similar enough to what Kane had described that she thought she had gotten them to the correct place. She dismounted and considered leaving Eric on his horse and knocking on the door to be certain, but now that the horses were stopped, he looked to be only seconds from falling. Snow hastened to his side, freeing his feet from the stirrups and untangling his fingers from where they were clenched tightly in the mare’s mane. She helped him to dismount, and as soon as his feet were on solid ground he sagged against her, his legs no longer holding him upright. Snow struggled to the door of the cottage, staggering under the weight of Eric’s limp body. She knocked desperately, praying that they had come to the correct place. A long moment passed, and Snow knocked again more emphatically. A moment later the heavy door swung open to reveal a slender yet statuesque woman with dark hair and skin the color of polished walnut that glowed in the candlelight spilling out from the cottage’s interior.

“What do you want?” the woman asked, her voice lowly melodic and distinctly suspicious.

“We need help.” Snow explained. “He’s injured. Kane told us that you could help. You are Maddie, aren’t you?” The woman pursed her lips.

“I am.” She acknowledged finally. She looked them over critically, taking in everything with her calculated gaze. Finally, she relented. “Bring him inside.” She opened the door wide.

It took the strength of both women to maneuver the unconscious Huntsman through the doorway. In the flickering light of the candles, he looked worse than Snow could have imagined. Even with the dimness of the light, the pallor of his face was evident, and a sheen of sweat dotted his brow despite the chill of the air. Snow bit her lip to keep tears of sorrow and fear at bay.

“Come,” Maddie commanded. “We must get him to my workroom so I can examine him.”  She nodded toward an open doorway on the far side of the room. Eric made a small sound of pain and protest as Maddie hauled his injured arm over her shoulders and hoisted him up so they could carry him between them.

The workroom was narrow, filled with shelves and cabinets with bunches of dried herbs hanging from the walls and ceilings. The left side of the room was dominated by a long counter, while the right boasted a low cabinet of drawers. A straw mattress and a pillow were laid on the cabinet, so that it became a sort of makeshift bed. It was onto this piece of furniture that they hoisted Eric’s limp form.

“What happened?” Maddie asked brusquely, now able to step back and begin assessing her patient’s condition. He didn’t look well. Blood soaked his shirt not just at the shoulder, but along the entire left side of his body and his shirtsleeve as well.

“He was stabbed, in a bar fight.” Snow explained. “Perhaps an hour ago. He barely made it here. Kane thought that the man who cut him- Sloane- might have used some sort of poison on his blade.”

“He was right,” Maddie agreed, rolling back her sleeves. “This is no simply a reaction to a cut. There is certainly poison involved. We need to get his shirt off so that I can see the wound.” Snow hurried to unbuckle the belt that Eric wore to hold his weapons and then to the laces that held his shirt closed. Maddie, however, took a more direct approach, using a small knife to rend the fabric at his shoulder with one clean slice. Having dealt with this, she began to examine the wound, leaving Snow to pull the shirt clear and drop it out of the way.

It was, she realized with a start, only the second time she had seen him unclothed like this. His skin was still the same pale gold that she had seen such a short time ago in the river, and it still stretched magnificently over his broad, muscled frame; but now there was an alarming splash of crimson across the golden skin. Blood covered his shoulder, his arm, and his ribs, and was even smeared across his rippled abdomen. For the first time, Snow could see the damage that Sloane had wrought. The flesh at Eric’s shoulder gaped open from a gash that ran several inches. It was unnatural to see his skin parted so, and Snow found that she had involuntarily pressed the back of her hand to her mouth in horror. Maddie, however, seemed utterly unfazed. In fact, she was leaning close over the wound, gazing at it, sniffing it, and even wetting her fingers with some of the spilled blood to sniff it. She spoke abruptly.

“Over there, on the final shelf, third from the top there is wooden box carved with a pattern of vines. Bring it to me.” Snow hurried to comply. She found the box precisely where Maddie had said it would be and hastened back to the table.

“Good.” Maddie said. “Now light those candles. I will need light to see.” She nodded, and Snow followed the jut of her chin to see the candle she spoke of, one of several placed around the room or mounted in sconces, all with polished metal discs behind them to reflect and multiply the light. Snow bent to her task, all the while keeping one eye on Maddie, who opened the box and drew out a delicate glass vial filled with cloudy fluid.

“Will that cure him?” Snow asked hopefully. Maddie shook her head distractedly as she measured out drops of the cloudy liquid into a tiny spoon.

“The poison running through his veins is powerful, and there is no antidote for it. I could do more if he had ingested it, but it’s in his blood instead, and there’s nothing I can do to draw it out. This is Amapola’s milk.  It’s derived from the sap of a poisonous plant”

“Another poison? You’re trying to kill him?” Snow realized that her voice was rising to the edge of hysteria, but she couldn’t begin to care. “You can’t do that. I won’t allow it.” She flew to stand beside the Huntsman’s prone form. Maddie didn’t so much as bat an eyelash.

“This poison has almost an entirely opposite effect of the one that Sloane has used. Where that poison slows the heart, this poison causes it to speed. Where Sloane’s poison results in fever and delirium, this poison causes the body to chill. It’s not a cure by any stretch of the imagination, but there is a sliver of a chance that if we offset the effects of the first poison and keep his heart from stopping, his body might be able to clear the poisons in its own in time. Now move aside so that I can treat your friend.”

Snow watched mutely as the herb woman tipped the milky liquid between Eric’s parted lips. Satisfied, the mahogany-skinned woman moved to the shelves, gathering jars and deftly plucking herbs from the drying bundles. Snow stepped closer to the makeshift bed, her expression pained. She attempted to ignore the crimson stain of blood and focus instead on his face, but even the strong line of his jaw was smeared with it. His breathing was shallow, and labored. Impulsively, Snow reached out and clenched her fingers around his slack hand.

“Don’t leave me.” She whispered, half in pleading and half in prayer. Eric’s eyelids fluttered and cracked open.

“Never leave you.” He vowed blurrily, even as his eyes drifted shut again and his head began to loll on the pillow. “Love you.” The words came out as the barest hint of a whisper.

Her heart leapt joyously. It was not the first time he had confessed his affections, to be sure, but after all that had transpired in the past days, and pain of his repeated rejections of her, she could help but feel relief. Better yet, she thought, if he was well enough to talk, then surely his survival could not be in doubt. Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, Eric’s hands began to twitch. His head followed, and within seconds, his entire body was rippling with convulsions.

“Something’s wrong!” she exclaimed frantically, and Maddie, who had been pounding a variety of herbs with a mortar and pestle dropped her instruments and nearly flew to Eric’s side, pushing Snow out of the way.

She hissed under her breath in frustration. “The poison is stronger than I thought. He needs more of the Ampola’s milk. Hold his jaw open so that I can administer it.”

Nervously, Snow complied, setting her fingers on his jaw even as she weighed the risk. What Maddie was proposing seemed dangerous beyond belief; a third dose of poison might well kill him. Yet doing nothing… Eric was clearly dying now, before her eyes. They had to do something and so, praying that she was not singing his death warrant, Snow pried apart his clenched jaw so that Maddie could administer several more drops of milky toxin. The herb woman pressed on his throat, forcing the clenched muscles to swallow. Still, the convulsions wracked Eric’s body. Snow felt tears welling and dashed them away with the back of her hand. Maddie gave her no time to dwell upon the direness of the situation.

“Keep that pillow under his head,” She instructed evenly, “So that he does not suffer further injury. And try to hold his arm steady- the convulsions have already worsened the wound.” Indeed, it did seem as though the blood was flowing more freely than even before. Snow did as she was bid. Maggie nodded, satisfied, and turned her attention back to her mortar and pestle.

“This is poultice, for the wound.” The stately woman volunteered, almost sensing Snow’s need to focus upon anything other than the sight of the man she loved perishing in her arms while the blood from his wounds stained her fingers. “It will draw the poison out and eventually allow me to stitch the wound closed.” She continued to talk, telling Snow about the plants she was using and their healing properties. The words washed over her, nearly meaningless, yet they allowed her to hold to her tenacity and resolve despite the night’s horrific events.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the convulsions diminished in strength, until they disappeared altogether. Once they were gone, Eric’s breath was so shallow that his chest hardly rose and fell. Were it not for the fact that his wound still bled, Snow might easily have believed him to be dead. She was so absorbed in her scrutiny of the Huntsman that she did not notice Maddie’s approach, and started when the other woman laid an approving hand upon her shoulder.

“You’ve done well.” The other woman reassured her, coaxing her back from the bedside and handing her a damp cloth to wipe the carmine stickiness of the drying blood from her skin. With a second cloth, Maddie began to wash the blood from the gash on Eric’s shoulder. “There’s oil from the Tea-Tree in the water, and leaves from the tree in the poultice I will apply,” Maddie explained in the same soothing voice. They will keep infection from setting in, and allow the wound to heal cleanly.”

“Does that mean that he will live?” Snow asked, seizing at the hope. Maddie’s look held sympathy, but little promise.

“His fever will continue to rise, even with every treatment I can give. It is unlikely that he will make it through the night.” She confessed. “And if he does, it’s near equally unlikely that he will live through the next day. If he manages that, his chances begin to increase, but… wounded and poisoned as he is, those chances are slim at best. He must be very strong for there to be even a hope.”

“He is.” Snow promised. Maddie granted her a sad smile.

“I don’t doubt it. But only time will tell.”

Snow did not leave Eric’s side during the night.  She dragged the spindly chair over to the side of his sickbed and curled herself into it and watched him, watched for each miniscule rise of his chest that signified he still drew breath. Maddie came in every hour or so to check upon her patient, replacing the drawing poultice and positioning practiced fingers along his neck to count the beats of his heart.

She offered Snow a pallet to sleep on before the fire, but Snow refused, unable to consider the idea of leaving her Huntsman’s side. Hours passed, and his fever set in, beading his brow with sweat even as his body was wracked with chills. She wiped his brow with a cool cloth and spoke to him in a soft voice, babbling nonsense in the hopes that he might simply recognize her voice and that he might cling to it ask he clung to life throughout the dark night.

Dawn lightened the sky, and still she kept her vigil though her voice had become hoarse and her eyes gritty. Maddie appeared in the doorway again, moving to change the dressing on his shoulder once more. She inspected it closely, nodding approvingly as she washed it clean.

“The wound can be stitched now.” She pronounced, crossing the room to pull a flat wooden box from a shelf. Inside, Snow caught a glimpse of sharp knives and instruments whose purpose she did not know and feared to ask, but Maddie only removed a leather pouch, which she unfolded to reveal thin silk thread and a set of wickedly curved needle. “Pull the blanket down so that I may have room to work,” Maddie instructed, and Snow hastened to comply. She watched in horrified fascination while the herb woman treated both the needle and silk with her tea tree solution, then set about stitching the gash, from which a trickle of blood had again begun to flow. It made her shoulders tense to see the way that the string pulled at the flesh, drawing it together with under Maddie’s capable hands. Eventually, she simply had to glance away.

In the daylight, she could see the evidence of older wounds upon Eric’s body. A thin scar traced across the left side of his ribs, and where she stood by his right hip, she could see two flat scars that suggested whatever wounds he had received had been closed with the red-hot flat of a blade, most likely on a battlefield during the wars. There were other places, along his forearm and below his collarbone, where light lines in his skin spoke of wounds he had sustained of a less severe nature, faded and half forgotten. There was even a place on his arm, just below his current injury, that had left a roundish scar, almost certainly a result of an arrow piercing his flesh.

The scars marred the artistic perfection of his form to some degree, but Snow was not perturbed by the sight. To her, they told the story of a life lived in the real and often brutal world beyond the stone walls of castle or keep. She wanted to know the particulars of each story; and it terrified her to think that she might never know. That for all she had talked at him throughout the night, she might never talk _with_ him again. She returned her gaze to Maddie’s stitching, resolutely fighting back the tears that constantly threatened to fall.

Many minutes later, swaying on her feet, Snow finally allowed herself to be led to the pallet before the fire. Though the idea of sleeping was loathsome, she could not pretend that she was not exhausted, and no matter how much she wished to remain by Eric’s side, she welcomed the softness of the mattress and pillow beneath her aching limbs. She was drifting off even as she drew the blanket over her, the last thought on her mind a prayer that when she woke, Eric would wake as well.


End file.
